


Trapped

by MayhemHeart



Series: The Spy Who Vexed Me [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 007 Mycroft, Agent Lestrade, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, M/M, Mission Gone Wrong, Mycroft To The Rescue, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Sherlock is basically Q, Younger Lestrade, still pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27591632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayhemHeart/pseuds/MayhemHeart
Summary: Mystrade Monday Prompt #13“Am I dead?”Mystrade Monday Prompt #14“We’ll figure this out.”
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: The Spy Who Vexed Me [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1971670
Comments: 15
Kudos: 86





	Trapped

**Author's Note:**

> Playing catch-up with a double feature! Also more Spies AU 
> 
> Rushed writing since I found some time this am. All mistakes mine.

Greg’s thoughts feel slow and thick like syrup. He can’t see anything, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s because his eyes are closed, but he can’t seem to open them. His eyelids feel unnaturally heavy, eyelashes fluttering against the top of his cheeks as he fights to see. There are cold fingers on his face, brushing his hair back, and he hums. That feels nice.

He knows he’s lying down, and his whole body aches, especially his left ankle. His nose and throat feel dry and sore, lungs burning, but he can breathe. He feels like he should be panicking, but he strangely feels safe, as long as those fingers don’t leave him alone with the darkness. 

“Greg,” a voice floats into his ears. It sounds far away, but he knows that’s not right. Whoever is speaking to him is close, still touching his face with gentle hands. 

“Greg, please.”

Greg frowns. It sounds a lot like Mycroft, but Mycroft never calls him Greg. It’s always Lestrade or Agent, said with a touch of exasperation. 

“Agent Lestrade, if you don’t open your eyes right now--”

Ah, that’s more like it. With what seems like way too much effort, Greg finally opens his eyes, squinting at the figure leaning over him. Mycroft’s face, hovering above his, gradually comes into focus. Warm gray eyes dart over his face, and Greg watches the play of emotions cross the other man’s features. Concern, relief, anger, despair, back to relief, and then… something else, affection? Greg usually prided himself as one of the few people who can decipher Agent Holmes’ expressions (when the man lets them slip through his mask, that is), but to see so many emotions at once is a lot for his pounding head to take in. His mind still feels sluggish, and he blinks slowly. Mycroft breathes out a soft sigh and leans down, dry lips pressing a kiss to Greg’s sweaty forehead. Gravity seems to be fighting him, but Greg manages to raise his arms, gripping Mycroft’s sides, wrinkling the already rumpled suit jacket. 

**“Am I dead?”**

Mycroft huffs a laugh through his nose into Greg’s hair before pressing their foreheads together. His lips ghost against Greg’s as he speaks, “Not today, Agent.”

Then Mycroft is leaning away from Greg’s grasp, and Greg desperately wants to pull him back. For the first time, Greg notices Mycroft’s disheveled hair, pallid skin, the cut on his right eyebrow, and the dried blood under his nose. His immaculate suit is ruined by dirt and a large tear on his left bicep, where the fabric is cut down to the skin, the edges tinged dark with blood. 

It all comes rushing back to him; the mission, the human trafficking ring, faulty intel. Greg going off script again. _Come on, Holmes, I have a good feeling about this_ as they made their way where Greg thought the girls were being held. A trap. A fight, too many henchmen to escape, his ankle being stomped on by a big bruiser of a man. Why did the bad guys always hire fucking giants? The door closing and trapping them in the room before gas, thick and deadly, started to fill up the room. Oh god, there was no way out, they were going to die, and it was all Greg’s fault. 

Greg gasps, struggling to sit up, his stomach roiling at the movement, “Mycroft, I’m so sorry --”

“Not now, Lestrade,” Mycroft says, moving to examine Greg’s throbbing ankle. 

“You were right. I should have listened to you,” Greg croaks out.

“While I want to take the time to appreciate those words coming from your mouth,” Mycroft teases, “we do not currently have that luxury.”

Greg looks around and realizes that they are no longer trapped in the room but rather right outside of it, in the dark hallway. The door jam and lock on the now open door is charred a deep black, smoke still coming off the burned surface.

“How?” Greg asks and hisses out a breath between his teeth when Mycroft rolls up the leg of his trousers and probes his swollen ankle. 

“Sherlock’s latest invention, exploding cuff-links,” Mycroft explains and shoots a grin at Greg, “Highly effective for unlocking a door.”

Greg wants to laugh, to pull the beautiful man in front of him into a kiss, but the pain in his leg reminds him that they are not out of danger yet.

“I’m pretty sure my ankle is broken,” Greg grimaces, “how the fuck are we going to fight our way out? I’m bloody useless.” The panic is starting to build in Greg’s stomach, clawing at his throat, but then Mycroft touches him, grounding him. 

“Don’t worry,” Mycroft says, his voice steady and calm. His hand is warm against Greg’s knee, and he squeezes it, **“We’ll figure this out.”**

And they do. Of course, they do. Even against the odds, Agent Holmes and Agent Lestrade make it through, together. Turns out, having a rescue team fighting their way towards them as the pair fight their way out also helps. Mycroft refuses to leave him, even when they are escorted back to medical where the doctors confirm Greg’s ankle is broken. Mycroft huffs out annoyances as medical also looks him over, and he ends up with a few stitches for the cut on his arm. They are battered and bruised but alive. 

It’s later acknowledged that their informant flipped on them, and while it’s not entirely Greg’s fault, Greg knows he could have been more cautious. He should have slowed down and talked to his partner. His confidence that the other man will always follow him into battle, even if it’s a bad idea, nearly got them killed. The guilt gnaws at him, and he expects to get a stern lecture from Mycroft, but it never comes. Greg also expects the reprimand he gets from an irate Alicia and the disappointed looks from Anthea during debriefing. Still, he’s not expecting the way Mycroft holds his hand throughout it. The way Mycroft’s thumb slowly caresses his skin and tightens gently when he feels Greg tense from Alicia’s harsh words. It feels like reassurance. It feels like forgiveness. It feels like love.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Tumblr ](https://thesilverapplesofthemoon.tumblr.com) :)


End file.
